Shattered Reflection
by Ninja Violinist
Summary: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 13 / Insubordinate. Rebellious. Worst of all: compassionate. Everything an angel was not supposed to be in Michael’s new world.


(6/3/2018) I read "Wenn Die Engel Fallen" by 29Pieces and got this little blurb going. **Spoilers Ahead** for 13x22!

* * *

The first time was Egypt. Every first born son? Did they not hear the screams of the mothers? The fathers? Certainly there were those who were nearly grown, but some were young. Children. _Infants_.

In the Chair, the memory of Castiel's hesitation, of his objection, was flicked onto the floor off the edge of a needle. A lesser angel would mop up the mess.

* * *

Castiel's following infractions occurred not forty years later, much to Naomi's frustration. Initially it was just the culling of the Midianites. He was lucky he had a friend; Balthazar had dragged Castiel away before the delinquent could vocalize his opinion over Moses' treatment of the women and children. His expression of horror, however, did not go unnoticed.

The second was the extermination of the Canaanites. _That_ protest could not be ignored. If Heaven was to protect its chosen people then it was necessary that others see what happened when they were harmed. Castiel had had no right to attempt to interfere.

A little longer in the Chair this time. Maybe all of his disrespectful tendencies could be rooted out completely.

* * *

Centuries passed. Castiel remained compliant, or at least he kept his seditious thoughts to himself. He followed orders. He eventually _gave_ orders.

It was vital, however, to keep the malfeasant away from important events. From the way her spies in his garrison talked, it appeared that Castiel was still harboring seditious ideas about mercy. He was particularly vocal during the fall of the Babylonian Empire. Rather than ruin an extraordinarily gifted soldier, Naomi manipulated the rosters, and tweaked his memories, in order to ensure his compliance during certain procedures.

During the Crusades they sent him to watch over the leftover Mayans to ensure that a vestige of that great civilization survived.

Castiel nearly caught wind of the Inquisition, but it became crucial that he keep an eye on the Tu'i Tonga Empire _just_ in case their expansion interfered with God's works in Europe.

When missionaries and opium began flooding into China Castiel had to concentrate on lives being wasted in Japan. Conversely, when Commodore Perry forced the Shogunate to concede the angel was asked to regulate the sudden increase in addicts over in Shanghai.

* * *

Humanity's penchant for innovation and destruction grew exponentially in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The angels were content, for the most part, to let them be. Christianity and its offshoots were spread nicely around the globe. A few wars and catastrophic environmental events kept the population to a reasonable level. Equilibrium had been achieved.

Then, as it was written, Lucifer rose.

* * *

Castiel was a thorn in Michael's side again and again and again.

 _Lucifer_ had given the archangel less of a headache. He demanded explanations. He bemoaned the blood on his hands. _He refused orders_.

That wretched dissident began secretly aiding, even resurrecting, humans. Other angels, malcontents, began helping him: Balthazar, Rachel, Samandriel. Anna reclaimed her Grace just to join his cause. At this rate the pestilence that God had inflicted upon the Earth would never be exterminated. It was time, in Michael's opinion, to take matters into his own hands.

They coerced a few apes into laying a trap. As desired, Castiel and his ilk came to their rescue. With both Michael and Raphael there to lead the excursion all of the traitors were rounded up and imprisoned. The humans were allowed to go to Heaven as a reward.

Castiel was made to watch as each one of his companions were scourged and executed. They began and ended with Balthazar, prolonging the delinquent's best friend's pain for as long as possible. By the time the last of Balthazar's Grace had emptied onto the floor the despair emanating from Castiel was palpable.

It was time.

They tore off his wings first. Feather by feather, from primaries to secondaries to pinions, until all that was left was bloody bone. Then they were ripped from his back.

Naomi objected when they put him back into the chair; they were supposed to _reform_ , not torture. Besides, Castiel had been subject to indoctrination more than any other angel in Heaven. They had stripped from him his wings, his closest brothers and sisters. It was time for mercy: he should be granted a quick death.

Michael had her executed for insubordination.

Over and over the needle went in and rooted about. They broke and stitched and molded that flawed, repulsive excuse for an angel into one _far_ more useful. Cut that pesky sense of morality out. Burned out that annoying desire to question. Twisted his innate kindness into something far more proper for a soldier of Heaven. When the procedure was done Michael was pleased.

They'd crafted the _perfect sadist_.

Castiel's vessel suffered permanent damage. Its left eye clouded over. It forgot straightforward English and began speaking with a bastardized accent of its German and Russian progenitors. It developed tics.

But Castiel the _angel_ was a work of art. Michael placed him on Earth and gave him a simple, open assignment: ferret out humanity's secrets.

* * *

Castiel hated everything, everyone, including himself. Subconsciously he knew what he was doing was wrong, that his actions were loathsome, hellish, _sinful_. His only reprieve from the constant, screaming anguish of self-loathing came when he inflicted torment, an unconscious revenge upon the apes that had led to his former self's demise.

He no longer wanted explanations. They gave him a location and a target and he drove. It was a pity they had taken his wings; there would be so many more humans under his hands if he could fly.

There was no blood on his hands. _Amateurs_ had blood on their hands. Castiel was an expert, a _specialist_. He knew what synapses to slip his Grace into in order to get at those oh so _delectable_ terrors. Once found, he could draw them to the surface and feast upon them, burying his own agony under a gluttonous meal of human pain.

He always followed orders. They gave him a name. A target. A goal. How gratifying it was to see it done!

One of the resistance leaders had been caught. She was proving impervious to normal techniques. Castiel presence was required as soon as possible.

* * *

Gunfire and screams.

He was going to be caught. _Again_. And then would come the blood and the no no no, please don't, just leave Anna alone, leave Balthazar alone, kill me just _kill ME,_ the ripping and the tearing, the Chair and the _loss_ …

A hand pulled him from his truck. He was slammed into the side by…

 _Himself_. His wretched, Paradise World self.

Only this Castiel was strong. Righteous. _Whole_.

But wait…

Ah, there. There in his eyes. The remorse. The self-loathing. _The violence_. It seemed no matter where he came from, no matter what the world had held, he was slated for failure. He almost laughed. "Don't think you are better than me," Castiel snarled with great conviction. "We are the _same_."

"Yes." Cold, Heavenly-forged steel rasped down his neck. The Other Castiel's eyes were sad. "We are." His blade thrust into his heart.

If he could have, Castiel would have thanked himself for the beautifully quick death.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : I don't know what accent Misha Collins used for Alt-Cass but this seemed like a good explanation. I mean, it sounded Russian to me but the Nazi gear…?


End file.
